Second Chance
by x19Narya90x
Summary: Fifteen-year-old Anna is grieving for her sister. In her dreams she suddenly finds herself linked to a world long, long forgotten - and to a blue-eyed foal she has a nagging feeling she should recognise...
1. Prologue

_Pain. Dizziness. Sickness. Confusion, movement, and even more pain. Like fire in her gut. Voices – but they sounded like they were speaking underwater. Sobbing. Ground lurching under her. Pain again – agony, even. She couldn't see..._

*

"But she was alright at first!" wailed Anna. "She got up and ran after the horse – and then..." She dissolved into tears. Her Dad slipped an arm around her shoulders and squeezed tight.

"It's alright, Anna," one of the paramedics assured her. "We're trying our hardest for her; she's in the best possible hands."

"She will be OK, won't she?"

The paramedic smiled, but she didn't answer the girl's question, nor did her smile quite reach her eyes.

*

_The stubble in the mown field dug into her back. Why didn't they move her? It itched. How she ached. She forced her eyes open. Where was her horse? Where was her sister?_

*

"Her eyes are open! Izzy!" Anna tried to spring forwards, but her Dad gripped her arms firmly.

"Let them do their job, love."

"But she'd want me with her!"

"I know. You are with her, love. You've done so well – you've been such a brave girl..."

Normally, Anna would have swatted her Dad's arm away and berated him for talking to her like a baby – but with her sister lying crumpled on the ground and her insides feeling like somebody had beaten them up with a whisk, she couldn't bring herself to do it. Besides, she realised with a flash of guilt, what must he be feeling? Izzy was his daughter as much as she was Anna's sister.

She leaned against him and watched in silence.

*

_More pain. They were moving her again. Rattling. Jolting. A siren – blue light. An ambulance. Not good. She closed her eyes. It hurt so much..._

*

"Now, then, poppet, tell us again exactly what happened – so we know what to do for Isabel when we get to hospital."

Anna took a deep breath. "Well...we were just riding through the field – only walking – and Minstrel stumbled. He – he rolled with Izzy still in the saddle and she went under him...but she was OK, she ran after him when he bolted, she just fell, it looked like she tripped..."

"Molly!"

The paramedic looked up; one of her colleagues was frantically gesturing her into the ambulance. Her heart sank.

"Back in a moment, poppet," she smiled, and sprinted over.

* * *

She wasn't sure how it happened. One moment she was strapped to a stretcher, in agony, barely able to see or hear. The next, everything had blurred into a whitish mass, like a blanket of snow had settled over her eyes – and then she was floating steadily upwards, and it didn't hurt any more. She glanced down. A tall, red-headed woman in green overalls was racing towards an ambulance, and standing a little way away was a man with fear etched into the lines of his face. He had his arms wrapped around a skinny girl of about fifteen. The two of them looked familiar, somehow, but they were moving further and further away as she drifted up..._no._ Those two were important, she knew it. She struggled downwards, ignoring the force that was gently yet insistently restraining her. _Not yet. Not ready._ The red-headed woman was coming back now; the man was shaking his head, and the skinny girl was sobbing.

Slowly, tenderly, Izzy reached out a comforting hand to touch the girl's cheek; the girl shivered at the contact, and for one brief instant, Izzy felt a flash of remembrance. Warmth suffused her. She pulled her arm away and closed her eyes, and felt the loving embrace of a power she couldn't begin to comprehend as the world around her became a mass of light – and then there was no more.


	2. Blue Eyes

Anna lay in bed, her eyes wide open, though her body felt as drained as if she'd just run a marathon. She hadn't slept in three nights now. Every time she closed her eyes she saw Izzy falling under Minstrel as he rolled, Izzy getting up and chasing after the startled horse, Izzy suddenly collapsing like she'd been shot, Izzy lying on the ground in the cornfield, eyes struggling to focus and begging for help...

She rolled onto her side and hugged her duvet, stuffing the corner of it into her mouth. Her parents' room was only the other side of her wall, and she didn't want them hearing her sobs again. Last night her Dad had come in and tried to cuddle her, and she had lain stiff and unresponsivein his arms; though part of her wanted to comfort her parents, another stronger part was screaming to be left alone, to deal with this in her own way.

The funny thing was, though she cried and raged and shut herself away, all of it felt more like a pretence at grief than any real emotion. She was acting, aping; inside, she realised with an unexpected detachment, she hadn't yet accepted that Izzy was gone. She still expected to see her around the house, in the farmyard and in the stables. Sometimes she'd catch a glimpse of a horserider in the distance and think from the outline that it was her sister. Other times she'd walk past her room and think that, out of the corner of her eye, she'd seen Izzy's skinny blonde form sprawled out on the bed. It was as if her sister had merely gone on holiday, or was playing hide and seek – when her parents weren't watching, she'd wander round the garden and the outbuildings, searching behind trees and bushes and corn barrels, half-expecting Izzy to pop up and yell "Gotcha!" She could picture the scene so clearly; first she'd hug her, thrilled that it had all been a horrible mistake. Then she'd scold her, maybe even slap her for giving everyone such a scare. Then Izzy would laugh all over her freckled face and they'd link arms and walk back up to the farmhouse together, inseparable, the best of friends, the way it always had been.

Suddenly, Anna was seized by an urge to see her sister again – even if it was just in a photograph, she had to see her face. She switched on her lamp and sat up. Her hair, salty and damp from tears, clung in tendrils to her cheek as she scrabbled about in the bedside drawer for one of the few family pictures she kept in her bedroom, a snap of her, Izzy and their cousin on a beach in Spain. Having found it, she gazed hungrily at the scene, her eyes devouring the flawless blue sky and the sugar-soft sand and the smiles on everybody's faces, but most of all they feasted on the girl in the middle, tall and slender, tanned and truly beautiful in her white bikini. And yet...something wasn't right. Izzy. That was it. Izzy didn't look right. Her nose was a little longer than that, surely? And her legs a little slimmer? Or maybe the picture was right, maybe Izzy had looked that way. Maybe Anna's mind was already playing tricks on her, even after a mere matter of days, warping the image of the sister she had loved more than anybody or anything else in the world. Feeling cheated, she flung the photograph to the floor, jabbed at the switch of her lamp until it turned off and lay back down.

She didn't sleep. Though she turned over so that she was facing away from it, all night the picture tormented her from the carpet of her bedroom. She could feel them, the three pairs of eyes, watching her and laughing. Her own, her cousin's, and Izzy's. Izzy, locked in the picture, because a picture was now all she'd ever be. Izzy, smiling with those perfect red lips. Izzy, with her suntan and her swishing blonde ponytail. Izzy and her blue eyes, those dancing eyes that always spoke of mischief, yet at the same time shone with love and affection. Those eyes. It was the eyes she couldn't forget, the eyes staring up at her as her sister lay on the ground, searching and then finally focussing on her face. Those eyes, scared, helpless, beautiful. So innocent. So blue.

_*_

_Edoras, Fourth Age_

Wulf skidded to a halt outside the stables, gasping air into his aching lungs.

"Steady on, son," grinned one of the grooms, catching at the boy's shoulders to prevent him from colliding with the door frame. "We don't want to spook the horses, now, do we? Especially not after this morning's antics..."

"Is...Fleetfoot...has she...?" Wulf choked out, but the groom seemed not to hear him.

"Who'd have thought it, eh?" he sighed, shaking his head. "Old Brego wending his way back here after all these months – nobody had seen him since Dunharrow, you know!"

"Yes, sir...Fleetfoot..."

" Skin and bone he was when he was found," the man continued. "Felaróf alone knows how he managed to survive all that time in the wild...although weak as he might have been, he still didn't take kindly to us putting a bridle and rein on him, no indeed!" His bearded face broke into a good-natured chuckle. "Always was a spirited horse, that one. Ah, I remember Prince Théodred breaking him in as a colt..."

"Sir...do you know..."

"Still, we've got him all settled now." He scratched at his chin, then seemed to suddenly remember Wulf's presence. "Anyway, lad, what are you doing tearing about the city like all the hounds of the Golden Hall are on your heels?"

Wulf had waited patiently for the older man to finish his rambling, and now had to refrain from uttering a sigh of relief. "I was wondering, sir, if Fleetfoot had foaled yet."

"Ah, you'll be Aldhelm's boy, no doubt," he smiled. "No, she hasn't; you're in time. Your father's down at the end stall with her now."

"Thank you." He sidled past the groom and between the stalls, appreciatively sniffing at the sweet, hay-scented air and savouring the feel of the earth yielding under his feet. He smiled. Nowhere in Edoras made him quite as happy as the stables. One of the horses snorted as they rubbed their neck along the top of their gate, and the creature's hot breath ruffled his hair. He chuckled as he reached up to smooth it down again – then jumped violently as a horrific noise erupted from the stall to his left.

"That'll be Brego," called the groom over the racket of banging and braying.

Wulf stared, wide-eyed. Brego was bucking and rearing and rolling his eyes; the panic emanating from him was almost tangible. His chestnut coat glistened with sweat, and his ribs jutted visibly from his sides.

"You poor creature," the boy murmured, stepping forward and raising one hand. "What in the name of the King has happened to you?"

"I wouldn't, Wulf," came a gentle voice from the end of the stables.

"Father!" Wulf ran to meet him, forgetting Brego for the time being. "Mother said Fleetfoot was...has she...?"

"Not yet, but she is near; she expelled her waters some time ago." Smiling, he put his one hand on the boy's shoulder. Wulf swallowed, and couldn't prevent his gaze from travelling up his Father's right hand side to the gaping space where his other arm should be. Aldhelm had lost it to an infection from an Orcish arrow at the battle of Pelennor Fields, and the boy shuddered at the memory of his father lying on the surgeon's pallet, weak and feverish and bleeding. Even now, months afterward, he couldn't quite get used to the sight.

As though sensing his son's grim thoughts, Aldhelm squeezed his shoulder comfortingly. "Come, Wulf. I may need your help."

That was certainly true; more than one hand would be needed if anything at all went wrong with the foaling, and the boy knew that Aldhelm wasn't willing to rely on the grooms to help his precious Fleetfoot. The grey mare was of Snowmane's line, a handsome and valuable creature with a sweet temperament; Aldhelm used to boast that she was the only mount in Rohan he would trust to carry his children bareback. Wulf smiled. Despite his claims, his father had never put that theory to the test – a pity, really, since he longed to try and ride without tack, after the fashion of the legendary Elf who had fought with the Rohirrim at Helm's Deep. Well, if this new foal were strong and healthy then it was to be his – Aldhelm had promised – and he, Wulf, would train it so well that he'd be able to gallop all over the plains without need for a saddle. Adrenaline rose in his stomach at the very idea, and he gave a wriggle of delight. Mistaking his anticipation for nerves, Aldhelm slipped his arm across the boy's shoulders, and together they waited.

They remained outside the stall, both knowing that it was best for the mare to birth alone if she could, though Wulf leaned forward on the gate. Excitement flooded through his veins like a bubbling brook. This was the first birth he had ever been allowed to participate in, though he had often watched from a distance, with his mother holding his hand to make sure he did not cause a nuisance. Fleetfoot lay down, rolled and got up repeatedly; when he was younger, Wulf had used to jiggle with impatience at this stage, but now he was learned enough to know that it wouldn't last long. Sure enough, she soon lay down, and after a little more waiting Wulf let out a squeal of joy.

"The feet! The feet! I can see its feet!" he whispered, clutching at his Father's arm.

"Hush, boy."

Wulf fell silent again, biting his lip to prevent another outburst, and watched as Fleetfoot lay on her side and rubbed against the straw. Little by little the foal emerged. Still partly covered in a thin membrane, its gangly body glistened as its mother released it into life. Delight built in Wulf's chest as warm as the hot brick he took to bed on cold winter nights, and as he watched Fleetfoot cleaning the new arrival he had to remind himself to breathe.

"A little filly for you, Wulf," Aldhelm smiled, running an approving eye over the new arrival. "Well, that was all as easy as can be, and she certainly looks strong enough; she should grow into a fine mare."

Wulf nodded without taking his eyes off the foal. The little creature was enchanting – pure white and fragile-looking, and when she turned her head –

"By Felaróf and Eorl the Young!" exclaimed the groom Wulf had almost run into earlier. "Now there's something you don't see every day – she's got blue eyes!"


	3. A Difficult Evening

"Blue eyes?" scoffed Wulf's older sister Beomia as they settled down to dinner. "Don't talk nonsense!"

"I'm not!" retorted Wulf. "It's true, isn't it, Father?"

"Aye. It doesn't happen often, but it is possible. You know what it means, don't you, Wulf?"

"Yes." He puffed up his chest proudly. "It means she is a True White Horse, not just a grey that looks white. There'll be no dark hairs on her anywhere, not ever – not a dapple, nothing."

"Well, aren't you the lucky one," Beomia muttered, tearing a crust of bread from the loaf on the table and stirring her stew with it. She kept her eyes fixed on the bowl and let her tangled dark hair fall across her face.

Aldhelm exchanged a worried glance with his wife, then turned back to his young son. "Have you thought of a name for her yet, my boy?"

"No," answered Wulf, chewing thoughtfully. "I did wonder about Whitemist, but-"

Beomia made a choking sound in her throat; Wulf stopped and glared at her indignantly.

"Are you alright, dear?" asked their mother, beginning to rise from her stool.

"No," the girl coughed. She lifted her head and met her brother's gaze, anger sparking in her eyes. "Wulf, how dare you!"

"What have I done now?" he protested.

"_Whitemist!_" she hissed, her face flushing red. "Have you no sense of decency? Of respect? _Whitemist,_ Wulf – think!"

"I don't know what-"

"Whitemist was _his_ horse, you fool! Don't you remember? Well, no, perhaps you don't." Her voice was rising hysterically in both pitch and volume, and her bushy hair trembled as she began to shake. "Orvyn, remember? The man I was supposed to marry? The one that you couldn't wait to welcome into our family, the one that you two claimed to love as much as your own son?" Here she turned flooding eyes on her parents and gave a loud hiccup. "Except he was k-killed at Helm's Deep, and you all seem like you c-can't wait to forget hi-im..." Her voice fluctuated and dissolved into sobs. Aldhelm leaned across the table and reached for her hand but she snatched it away, catching her bowl of stew; for a moment it wobbled precariously on its base, hesitantly, as though undecided, then it seemed to make its mind up and tipped into Beomia's lap. With an explosion of fresh tears she kicked the bowl across the floor and ran to the bedroom.

For a few moments the remaining three sat in silence, as though Beomia's outburst had been an enchantment of some kind, cursing them into quiet. Wulf stared at his sister's empty stool and felt a knot of guilt and discomfort form in his stomach. A chill and cruel hand began to pluck at his insides, and he began to talk at the same time as his mother and father.

"I didn't mean to-"

"I should go-"

"Well, that was-"

They all stopped at the same time, too. Wulf dropped his gaze and began to pick at a hole in his breeches.

"Go on, son," said his father in a gentle tone. "What were you going to say?"

"I didn't mean to upset her," he mumbled. "How was I supposed to know that Orvyn's horse was called Whitemist?" A hard note of defiance crept into his voice, and he looked up again. "It's a common enough name – what I was going to say before she..."

"Before _Beomia,_" interrupted his mother, raising an eyebrow. "It's rude to say 'she.' "

"Yes, mother. Well, all I was saying before Beomia got upset was that I thought about Whitemist, but I decided it was too common. There are plenty of horses called Whitemist in Edoras, just as there are plenty of boys called Wulf and plenty of girls called Beomia!" He folded his arms and added for good measure, " So there."

"I think I should go and speak with her," sighed his mother. "She's wallowed in this for long enough – we all loved Orvyn dearly, but she's only seventeen, and there will be others..."

"Leave her be, Eadwyn, at least for a short time," Aldhelm interrupted. "Let her compose herself – and when you do speak to her, for the sake of Eorl don't mention that you think she should be encouraging other suitors! Well, not unless you want your eyes scratching out and feeding to the dogs, at any rate," he smiled, winking at Wulf.

Eadwyn sniffed. "All very well to say such things, Aldhelm, but you cannot deny that she's doing herself no good. Night and day she feeds her grief – she won't smile, she wanders off by herself, she won't stand to hear his name mentioned...and then we try and please her by avoiding the subject and she accuses us of forgetting him!" She shook her head. "I know that I, for one, never will. Such a dear boy, always merry and laughing...and my, those golden curls! Many a maid would have been jealous of those, I'm sure." Her voice began to crack slightly; she dabbed at her eyes with her skirts, and suddenly seemed to become aware of Wulf watching her. "Eat your stew, boy," she told him, her briskness not quite hiding the tremble in her tone. "It'll get cold."

Obediently Wulf began to spoon up the smoky-smelling liquid and forced himself to chew and swallow. He feigned absorption in his meal, keeping his eyes fixed on the glistening ripples that wobbled away from his spoon every time he dipped in, while straining to catch his parents' conversation.

"My dear," his father whispered, "you cannot expect poor Bee to simply forget about Orvyn. The two of them were very much in love..."

"She was sixteen when she met him, and he was barely into his twenties! What do they know of love at that age? I'm sure she was very fond of the lad, but as I said, there will be others – or rather, there _are_ others. I hope you realise that Ida's son Aiken has been making enquiries?"

"How could I fail to realise when you insist on discussing it every time our daughter is out of the room?" sighed his father wearily. "Eadwyn, my love, have you forgotten what it was like to be young? Not in a hundred ages will you persuade Bee to marry Aiken – he's almost forty!"

"But he's steady and kind and dependable-"

"And he's going bald."

Wulf could not help the snort that escaped him at this remark. His mother scowled.

"Stop your eavesdropping, young Wulf! Finish your dinner and take yourself off to the stables, why don't you?"

"Yes, mother." He gulped down the rest of the stew, though the heat made his throat sore; it wasn't often that Eadwyn permitted him to leave the house after dinnertime, especially not to go to the stables. As he slipped down from the table, he felt a tug of regret that he would not be able to glean any further information – but then again his parents had fallen silent, concentrating on their own meals.

The air outside smelled wet and warm and fresh. Wulf inhaled deeply. There was nothing at all like the scent of Edoras on a summer's night – the tang of smoke and roasting meat, the lush bitter-sweetness of greenery and foliage just reaching the end of its prime and the ripe, leathery odour of horse-sweat, all mingled with that mysterious perfume of Dark that had begun to steal through the streets and the houses as soon as the sun had set. Excitement stirred in Wulf's belly. It was a beautiful night, and he was to spend with Fleetfoot and her foal, the perfect little white foal which his father had promised him for his very own. Happiness swelled in him, and he set out for the stables.

Passing Beomia's window, he heard an odd snuffling sound, and paused to look in. His sister was curled into a ball on her pallet, her face buried in the covers, still sobbing. The cold hand crept back for a moment, dampening his excitement, and he nervously nibbled his lip. He hadn't _meant_ to upset her. He wondered if she knew that their mother wanted her to marry Ida's son Aiken, who was nearly forty and going bald. He thought not. Should he tell her? No, best not to. It would only make her worse, and it wasn't as though their parents would force her to marry anyone she didn't wish to. She was safe enough – but even so, it seemed churlish to leave without a word of comfort. He rested his elbows on the sill and leaned into the room.

"Bee? Bee, I'm really sorry about before."

He heard her take a shuddering breath. "Go away, Wulf."

"I'm going to the stables to see the foal – do you want to come?"

"Wulf. Go away. Now."

"No need to be like that," he said in an injured tone, withdrawing. "I was going to ask if you wanted to name her, but now I shan't."

"Why should I care what you name your stupid foal? Leave me alone!"

"She's not stupid," he replied, but all the same he complied. He walked slowly, thinking that Beomia might lean out of the window and call him back, but she didn't.

The cold hand gripped his innards tighter. As usual, he had only managed to make things worse.

The horse-warmth and hay-scent of the stable comforted him somewhat, and Fleetfoot snickered in welcoming recognition as he hopped over the door to her stall. His foal was curled up in the corner, but rose on spindly legs to greet him; keeping one eye on Fleetfoot to make sure she didn't object, he held out his hand to the youngster, allowing her to snuffle at it with her velvety muzzle.

"You are a little beauty, aren't you?" he murmured, kneeling down in the scratchy bedding and letting both mother and foal muss his hair. He ran a hand over her warm sleek body, admiring the flawless white expanse – and then it came to him. "What about Annis, Fleetfoot? What do you think to that? Is she an Annis?"

Fleetfoot snorted and gave him a gentle nudge, which he took as a sign of approval. Little Annis, apparently tired of fussing around her master, settled herself beside him and pushed her muzzle into the crook of his elbow. Laughing, he gently rubbed her neck and nose.

Some time later, he heard the far door creak open, and almost immediately a racket of banging and braying erupted from across the stables. Fleetfoot began to shift nervously, and little Annis started to her feet.

"Oh, be quiet, you old fool horse!" snapped a girl's voice from nearby.

"Bee? Is that you?" called Wulf, getting up. "Don't mind Brego; Father says..."

"I'm not interested in what Father has to say about Brego. I've been sent to fetch you home."

Sighing, he turned and kissed the top of Annis' head, and gave Fleetfoot's nose one last rub. "I'll be back tomorrow," he promised them, and vaulted over the door to their stall.

"Talking to the horses?" asked Beomia, shaking her head. "You're going mad, little brother."

"Am not. You were talking to Brego."

As if in response to his name, the noise began again as the horse kicked and reared. Covering her ears, Beomia ran from the stables; Wulf followed, attempting to suppress a grin.

"What could possess him to behave like that?" Beomia asked, closing the door behind them.

Wulf shrugged. "Ever since Prince Théodred was killed, father said that the only man who's been able to do anything with Brego was King Elessar. Apparently he put some kind of Elvish spell on him to calm him, and ordered him to be turned free, then when Lord Aragorn was believed lost on the way to Helm's Deep, Brego found him and brought him back."

His sister smiled slightly. "Wulf, your head is full of nonsense. Elvish spells, indeed!"

"It's true," insisted Wulf. "Lady …owyn saw him do it. And how else do you think Aragorn got back to Helm's Deep after he fell off that cliff? Anyway, he rode him into battle and took him all the way to Dunharrow, but Brego panicked when he got near the Paths of the Dead. He bolted, and until this morning nobody had seen him since. Father thinks that the terror of that place has driven him even madder than he was before."

"From the tales I've been told of the Haunted Mountain, it's enough to make even grown men lose their wits, let alone a horse that was only half-sane to begin with." She shivered. "Come on; we ought not to speak of such things after dark. We should go home."

For a while they walked in silence, then Wulf remembered his news. "I called her Annis."

"What?"

"I called her Annis," Wulf repeated. "My foal. I've named her Annis."

Beomia nodded and kept walking. Wulf trotted anxiously beside her.

"Well?" he asked eventually. "What do you think?"

Her face tightened. "As I said before, what you name your foal matters nothing to me."

She quickened her pace; Wulf sighed and followed on.


	4. Interlude

He couldn't see. Why couldn't he see? Nearby a woman was screaming and crying; her sobs were harsh and ragged and wild, and they hurt his ears and head. Pain throbbed dully in his skull, and with each pulse came a wave of nausea. He wanted to be sick. Everything was white, a white bright agonizing blur...but now there were shadows, shadows shaped like people. He struggled to focus on their fuzzy outlines as they poked at him with fingers coated in some tight, slippery, unnatural material. A bitter alien scent clung to them, a clean yet unpleasant odour that felt scratchy in his nose. Something was not right. He wished the woman would be quiet so he could think and try to understand, but now she was choking out a word between her sobs, incessantly crying, "Derry, Derry!"

_What's Derry?_ he wondered. The word meant nothing to him. No, not nothing. The more those two syllables fell on his ears, the more they stung a buried part of his aching brain, but he forced his thoughts away from there – the pain was too sharp, the effort too great. He was tired. There was a high-pitched, rhythmic beeping sound in the background. It too sounded unnatural, but it was oddly soothing in its regularity.

Beep. Beep. Beep.

His lids were heavy.

Beep. Beep. Beep.

His eyes itched.

Beep. Beep.

More poking.

Beep.

_Enough. Enough for now._

He slipped back into the comforting blackness, away from the unnatural world of white light and blurred shadows, and for a few moments before it enveloped him entirely he saw the rolling green of his home country, but he felt no peace. The scratchy smell followed him into his dreams and the woman's broken voice rang in his ears, crying out for Derry.


	5. Time Flies

School began again in the second week of September, a fortnight since Izzy's accident. Anna didn't want to go back – school was yet another place that Izzy should and no longer would be – but her parents insisted.

"It'll do you good to get out and about," they told her.

She protested that she wanted to stay and help them around the house, but they weren't to be convinced.

"We don't need help, love. We're fine. You go off and spend some time with your friends."

Her insides wilted at that last remark; her friends were the last people she wanted around at the moment. Louisa and Nat had both come to the funeral in spite of her argument that they didn't have to, and had spent the entire wake following her around like a pair of anxious mother hens. Neither of them seemed to understand that she wanted space – they had cuddled her and fussed her and had made endless cups of tea, but each little act was like the prodding of a rancid wound, and every inane bleat of "Are you sure you're OK?" only served as a reminder that things would never be OK again. The carefully constructed sympathy of her friends and family was suffocating. What she craved was normality; nothing in her life felt right any more, as if everything in it had warped out of shape in response to the hole that Izzy had left. Even the most mundane of tasks took on an odd surreal sheen. It felt alien that she should be eating breakfast or going to muck out the horses or even walking and breathing at all after everything that had happened. Going back to school would only add to this sense of the pseudo-normal. She would go and she would pretend that things were the same as ever, but the painful knot that seemed to have settled in her gut would taunt her, and Nat and Louisa would be too nice to her, and the teachers would single her out for special treatment, and all these little niggles would come together and remind her of her grief as effectively as a neon billboard sign that proclaimed "Your Sister Is Dead."

She didn't say any of this to her parents. Whatever they might tell her, they weren't fine either.

She went back to school.

*

"Oh my gosh, there she is! Aw, bless her, she must feel awful..."

"Shut up, Kit; she'll hear you."

Anna ignored the whispered conversation to her right and flopped into her seat, feigning nonchalance. Mr. Proust was writing equations on the board. Algebra. Algebra was good. Algebra made sense no matter what was going on in the outside world.

Taking out her exercise book, she focussed on warming up her rusty mathematical muscles and pretended that she couldn't feel the sympathetic stares of her classmates. This was just another day at school – another normal, perfectly average day. Nothing had changed. Nothing.

*

"For those of you who have not yet heard, we regret to inform you of the death of one of our students. Isabel Murphy was killed in a tragic riding accident a little over two weeks ago. A popular, kind-hearted and clever student, she will be sadly missed by everybody at here at Lowood..."

_Funny,_ Anna thought as cold seeped into her from the uncomfortable assembly room floor. _This is the part in the books and the films where you're supposed to get angry. I shouldn't be able to listen to this. I should be storming off in tears or something – maybe raging at Miss Howarth for making Izzy sound the same as every other person that ever died. Hah! It's true, though. Headteachers always say the same things at times like these; they must have some sort of special website that they download their speeches from. Any minute now we'll catch her out – instead of Isabel Murphy she'll say Person X, and then the game will be up..._

She kept her thoughts firmly on this bizarre track, tensing and concentrating even harder whenever they threatened to deviate. The more she told herself stupid stories about the secret conspiracies of Headteachers, the easier it was to forget what Miss Howarth was talking about and relax into her monotonous pattern of speech as though she was merely reading out the sports fixtures, or the menu for school dinners.

A few rows away, a plump, dark-haired girl who had played hockey with Izzy began to cry. Anna glanced over, but didn't join in.

*

"Anna? We're going up to the newsagent's – do you want to come?"

"We're not allowed-" Anna began, and then realised. They were in Year Eleven now. They were had permission to go off-site at breaks and lunchtimes, as long as they could persuade a Sixth Former to walk with them. She considered, then shook her head. "I'll stay here. I don't have any money anyway."

"I'll buy you something," Nat offered.

"Nah. Don't worry, it's OK. Maybe tomorrow," she lied.

"Anna, are you...?"

_Don't you dare say it!_ "I'm fine. Really, I'm fine."

*

"Miss Murphy, might I have a word?"

Anna jumped as Mr. Proust caught at her arm in the middle of the seething corridor. "Actually, sir, I'm just on my way to Art..."

"I just wanted to say that if you need a friendly ear, my door's always open to you."

_Oh, piss off! Like I'd come and talk to you, you dozy old git – like you'd even understand!_ "Thanks, sir. Will do."

*

"Anna! Anna, come and sit here!"

Louisa waved at her frantically from across the English classroom. Anna hesitated, then slid into a seat on an empty row at the back and quickly started rooting through her bag so that she didn't have to meet her friend's hurt stare.

*

She sat alone again at lunchtime and studied her term schedules for her various subjects. Scanning the list, one phrase jumped out at her.

"Religion and Philosophy – Unit 1: Is Death the End?"

She felt like she'd swallowed a large lump of ice; her insides went cold and her throat felt tight. For some reason her ears prickled. Heat flooded her face. God, the irony of it! She crumpled the page and glanced around, wondering if it was a joke, if someone hadn't been tampering with her copy of the schedule.

Around her, students were laughing and joking with each other. Nearby, a table of brand new Year Sevens questioned each other about their hobbies and interests, tentatively trying to forge friendships in this strange new world of Secondary School. On the table next to them, the plump girl who had been crying about Izzy in Assembly was now feeding her boyfriend spoonfuls of her chocolate sponge, giggling and flicking his nose when he pulled a puppy-dog face and begged for more.

Anna got up and left the canteen, leaving her tray of spaghetti bolognaise untouched on the table.

*

"Before we begin, I'd like to announce a slight alteration to the scheduled curriculum." Mr. Barnes, the Religion and Philosophy teacher, adjusted his glasses and cleared his throat crossly when the class continued to chatter. "Settle down, please, ladies and gentlemen! You aren't on holiday anymore!"

One by one they fell reluctantly silent. Anna, who was sitting next to Nat and had been getting heartily sick of her friend's narrative about her latest crush, had to stop herself from sighing in relief.

"As I was saying," Mr. Barnes continued, "rather than beginning with Unit One, we will now begin with Unit Three. Unit One will be covered later in the year."

Anna longed to say something, but she didn't know what. She knew she should feel gratitude towards Mr. Barnes for making the change but in truth she was irritated. The alteration had been made for her benefit. She didn't want special treatment. She wanted normality.

*

As she was heading out of the school gates at quarter past four, somebody grabbed hold of her rucksack and tugged. She jumped and spun round.

"No need to be so twitchy," giggled Louisa. "It's only me."

"Sorry. You scared me."

"My mum was wondering if you wanted a lift home?"

Anna winced. Another sympathy gesture – Louisa's mum would be going out of her way to get her home, probably with the sole intention of asking how she was doing, if her parents needed any help with anything and so on. "No, it's fine. I'll walk." She almost set off, then remembered her manners. "Tell her thanks, though."

*

The kitchen door clunked shut as the warm, sweet smell of baking cakes rushed to greet her. Her heart sank. The smell of baking meant only one thing.

"Hello, poppet!" beamed her grandmother, bustling through from the living room. "How are you feeling?"

_Just wonderful, Grandma._ "Oh, not bad."

"Lovely, lovely...your poor mother's not doing so well, is she? I popped round this morning for a cup of coffee and she seemed ever so distracted - didn't invite me to stay for lunch, which is odd in itself, so I had a little look in the fridge (not to be nosy or anything, my sweet, but I had to make sure you were all looking after yourselves) and my word, it was like Mother Hubbard's cupboard! So I did a quick run to the shops for you and thought I'd stay around this afternoon and make a few treats for when you got back in from school...how was that, by the way? Your Dad said you were ever so reluctant to go – I'll bet it wasn't half as bad as you thought it would be, now, was it?"

"Nope." _It was about ten times worse._ "Everyone was really nice." _And I wanted to slap their smug, sympathetic faces for it._ "It was fine."

The days that followed were all fairly similar – a uniform march of kindly teachers, curious classmates and lesson after lesson after lesson. Oddly, though, the lessons were her favourite part. She didn't have to hold a conversation with her English book. She didn't have to explain to her Art sculpture why she hadn't sat next to it in Assembly. She didn't feel obliged to go and eat lunch with her Physics homework.

A few weeks into term, she realised she was drawing wary stares from certain members of the student body, and did something that had become very unusual for her these days. She initiated a conversation.

"Louisa?"

"Mmmph?" her friend uttered through a mouthful of Kit-kat.

Anna shuffled on the creaky wooden bench they were perched on. "Do people think I'm weird or something?"

Louisa swallowed and stared out across the concrete playground, watching some of the Year Eight boys try to ping the bra straps of their female contemporaries. Eventually she answered, "Well...no." But there was a waver in her voice that denied it any ring of sincerity.

"You can tell me, you know. I won't mind."

Her friend sighed. "It's not that they think you're weird, Anna. It's just – don't take this the wrong way – you've lost an awful lot of weight."

"Oh." Anna plucked at the waistband of her pleated skirt, and was mildly surprised to find how loose it was. She hadn't been eating huge amounts, it was true, but it wasn't deliberate. "I'm not doing it on purpose. I'm just not hungry."

"No, Anna, I know that. But...you know... you were really skinny to start with! Now you look kind of gaunt. Unhealthy."

"Thanks," she said, raising her eyebrows.

"I said not to take it the wrong way!"

"I know. I'm sorry."

Her grandmother, too, commented on this when she next visited, and announced her intention to feed her up. Anna did not object. Where Grandma was concerned, it made life far easier just to do as she was told.

The colour of the days drifted from green to gold to rusty brown and finally into wintery grey, with nothing to punctuate them except some very odd dreams. To her confusion, Anna had begun to see images of the same things in her sleep – a stable in the middle of a city on a hilltop, a curly-haired boy dressed like a medieval peasant, and a little white foal with wide blue eyes. Strangely, the foal looked older every time she saw it, as though it was growing up, and from time to time it would turn around and look her in the eyes, almost as if it knew she was there. It puzzled her. Obviously she had heard about recurring dreams, but she had always dismissed them as being made up by attention seekers, or as psycho-babble at best. Maybe that was it. Maybe she was cracking up. Losing it. Maybe she needed a shrink. Her mother had suggested it not long after the accident but she had rebuffed the idea immediately; her feelings were her own and she didn't want to share them. Talking to a stranger about Izzy would be as humiliating as dancing naked down Brighton Pier.

One morning when the cold was particularly vicious, she was startled to get to school and find the corridors bedecked with tinsel, garish baubles and shiny paper decorations. A large tinfoil banner above the doorway to her form room bore the slogan "A Very Merry Xmas," and the desks had been rearranged to surround a wilting Christmas tree that was topped by a singularly ugly Angel Gabriel.

"Looks like the Christmas fairies have paid us a visit, eh, Miss Murphy?" said Mr. Proust with a wink as he bumbled past her. When she didn't reply, he added, "Oh, go on, then, you've got me. Maybe it was the Year Seven Art class."

"I can't believe it's Christmas," she murmured, depositing her satchel onto her desk. Her gaping amazement had not been for the beauteous creations of the school's youngest Art students, but for the sudden realisation that it had been more than three months since she had knelt next to her sister in that field of stubble, holding her hand and waiting for the ambulance and praying to she knew not what that Izzy could hold on. Suddenly she felt furious with the twinkling decorations. They were in place to celebrate the very thing that hadn't heard those prayers, that had dared to take her sister away from her.

"Time flies, doesn't it?" Mr. Proust answered airily, unpacking the register from his briefcase. "Right then, ladies and gentlemen, let's see who's managed to get themselves to school on time today..."

For the last two weeks of term Christmas was everywhere, infecting every aspect of school life, even the lessons that had been her refuge for so long. In Maths, they were given statistics about the hours Santa's elves spent in the toy factory and asked to find the average length of an elf's working day. In English, the set texts for GCSE were put away and copies of "A Christmas Carol" were dusted off and distributed. Art lessons were given over to decorating the set for the Nativity play at the local primary school. Teachers talked whimsically about the magic of Christmas, a priest came into Assembly to preach to them about how the miracle of Christ's birth was still relevant in the world today, and on the last day of term the dinner ladies provided a Christmas feast of dry turkey, burnt stuffing and gloopy gravy.

As Anna and her classmates waited for the dismissal bell in their form room at the end of the day, a palpable sense of excitement hovered over them like a swarm of midges congregating around a stagnant pond. She sat between Louisa and Nat at the back of the room as they talked over her head in loud excitable voices. That wasn't uncommon these days – though they rarely left her alone, they had stopped trying to force her to engage in conversation, and left her to her thoughts. She felt the occasional pang of guilt, but the more time that passed, the less she felt she had in common with them. To her they seemed unbelievably childish, concerned with the merits of Vaseline versus lip gloss, whether boys preferred short or long hair, or where the latest designer knock-offs could be bought for the cheapest price. What did any of that matter?

The current topic of debate was whether Mr. Proust could officially be considered "hot for an old guy," but she was spared further irritation by the distribution of end-of-term reports. She scanned the two sides of A4 for anything alarming before she took it home and delivered it to her parents, but for the most part saw only the usual comments – "conscientious," "dedicated," "a promising start to the year." However, one paragraph near the bottom leapt out at her.

"This term, Anna has applied herself with even more than her usual vigour. While such efforts are indeed commendable, members of staff have voiced concerns that she may be working herself too hard in order to distract herself from issues in her personal life."

Her gut bubbled and heat rose in her neck and face, making her jumper itch uncomfortably. She glanced over at Mr. Proust but he had his back to her, and she didn't want to call him over. Seething, she read over the offending phrases again. How dare they! They had no idea, they didn't understand, not in the least! What on Earth gave them the right to talk about her and Izzy in such a bland, impersonal way?

On her way home she slipped it into a dustbin. It was their first Christmas without Izzy – she was fairly sure her parents wouldn't remember to ask for it.

*

Christmas day itself was a non-event for Anna and her family. There was no snow. There never was. Her grandmother came over and made Christmas dinner and jollied them into singing carols and watching "The Sound of Music" on TV, but she fooled nobody. Their forced cheerfulness was like a sculpture made of spun sugar – a casual observer might take it for real glass, but for anyone in on the secret it would be a simple enough thing to take it in the palm of their hand and shatter it with one good squeeze.

Anna excused herself from the festivities early, claiming a headache. She went to bed and dreamed of her little white foal.


End file.
